My world revolves around sound... or should I say that sound powers my world and it's been that way for as long as I can remember.
There a hundreds of ways we connect with the world, but of our senses, we all have one or a combination that dominates. Some people have smells- with a single whiff they can tell that a perfume is wrong for you or what you've been cooking. Some have colors that they need to be surrounded by or are floored by sensational beauty. Some have textures, their finger tips and tongues guide them through a life filled with velvety, grainy, etc goodness... I have sounds.
I can tell whether or not I'll like a person by the quality of his or her voice. I reach out for station changes the minute something I'm not interested comes on the radio and if there is nothing decent, I'll simply turn it off. My neighbor's tuneless whistling causes me physical pain and like my mother, I have no qualms with waging war on wind chimes.
Words come into this kingdom. And should there be a territory devoted to nicknames, my father would be the duke. I had to introduce myself at a grad school function when I was working on my MS and had the distinction of having the most names of anyone in the room and we lost count around 30. My full first name is a rarity unless someone is irked with me or the extended family is around. If I hear Twink, Marble Ann, or Darts, I know I'm being summoned. I have no clue as to how my parents' cat knows when she's being called, she seems to have a new and evolving moniker every few days.
We had the great pleasure of being read to as children. The Shire and Mordor and Narnia were places tucked into my father's intonation, excited and fading to exhausted as he fell asleep before we did some nights. I maintain that it was his 'habit' of skipping pages that spurred us to learn how to read that much faster. The descriptions of these far off fantastical lands fueled my desire to see everything and a fascination with the written word that still delights and plagues me.
Dad also played the piano and I still remember listening to "Don't Cry Out Loud"on the steps past my bedtime. Him playing and mom singing or humming along.
My mother has perfect pitch, complementing both my father and brother's ability to recall even the most obscure lyrics, but inability to carry a tune in a bucket. It makes for delightful renditions of happy birthday... and now with Em sharing the family's love of music, we've been running the gamut from Beatles to Irish ballads and baby jams... Wheels on the bus has never sounded so good or had so many invented lyrics.
Resonation fascinates me... cave drawings were placed according to it and anyone who's been in a room with perfect acoustics knows that feeling- when pitches intertwine and reverberate in vestigial places within you. It's otherworldly and like so many ephemeral things, you wish it would never end.
I think that songs and sounds become woven in the tapestry of our being... or maybe we're mosaics and the sounds are those bright golden tiles that catch the sunlight and glitter. We remember the horrible and the wonderful things that people say and how they make us feel. We have songs that remind us of the best and worst people and things that have happened in our lives. "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" will always bring back senior year in high school. "The Way You Look Tonight" makes me laugh about the choreographed first dance at my brother and sister in law's reception, complete with dips. "I'll Be Seeing You" is my cards song with Nan. "These are the Days", "Shades" and "The General" bring me back to college and 80's and 90's rock is Nels tending at the Hoot. "I'd Like to Visit the Moon" is now Em's song.
While the songs key into some larger emotion, the sounds are much more visceral (i.e. my neighbor's painful whistling). I can pick out my grandmother's laugh in a crowd and I automatically have to smile. Something within me lightens, even when I have no idea what the laughter is about or what I'm getting myself into approaching them. My doorbell- the obnoxious circa 1930 creation that I had to have fixed and scares the bejesus out of my company, makes my heart flutter in delight- I have guests and I'm about to welcome them into my home. Running water for dishes calms me. Reminds me of a hundred Sunday afternoons either washing or drying at Nan's with my cousin and aunt, talking about everything and nothing languidly through dozens of interruptions. Someone humming winds around my spine and I stand taller, pulled into the melody and wondering what they're thinking.
I've been realizing through all that's going on right now that I'm talking far too much... feeling as though everyone needs to understand me, my frustrations, my anxieties; that I need to get out all of the stress and fears. I'm a nervous talker who comes home and hits her head on the door frame wondering what she just said and why. I need to stop. I need to find some quiet, to get comfortable with silence, to find the strength in trusting myself to deal with the "everything" and spend some time listening and understanding the nuances of the tones that build my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment